


Some Call it Solitude

by esuterutomoru



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Banter, Canonical Character Death, Convincing, Desperation, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Femdom, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kissing, Mentions of religious self-harm, Nipple Play, Some Swearing, Weird Biology, dysfunctional, handjob, oral stimulation, precum tasting, seeking resolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 23:12:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18509011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esuterutomoru/pseuds/esuterutomoru
Summary: It's been loss after loss after loss for Alexstrasza in the last decade. Fed up with the coddling of her flight, she sets out without aim, until she finds one... finds him.





	Some Call it Solitude

**Some Call it Solitude**

 

The Waking Dream, the Lady of Emerald, the Verdant Queen, is gone.

Ysera, at long last, rests eternal, her spirit a lingering touch of tenderness at the fringes of sleep.

Her sister is dead.

Alexstrasza forces herself to face the fact, to look the tragedy in the eyes like ripping a bolt quick from the flesh, but it does not help with healing. She doubles back, recounts, gazes at stars for guidance and turns to seek the wisdom of lovers, partners, consorts long past.

She remains at Wyrmrest Temple out of formality, a sense of duty that’s long ingrained in her, marrow deep. Adventurers rarely seek her wisdom now - there are others, younger and more suited to the task. In some ways, it is a blessing. She doubts she is good company, the bitterness sticking to her in sick layers as the grief festers like an untended wound.

Torastrasza worries - because  _ of course _ she does, she is her majordomo after all - and it only serves to stain her with a new strain; cynicism. Does Tora’s worry bring them back? What good is the care if begotten from a station, not from love? Where are her children now, the grown, lost to war, the unborn, lost to tragedy? How should respect and reverence replace the warmth, the companionship, the passion and the heartache she’s shared with Korialstrasz, with Tyranastrasz?

What nonsense. She could laugh, if her throat weren’t so clogged up with a lump of devastated mourning. She, who was so proud of her great family, of her hundreds of offspring, of her delightful consorts, is finally, entirely, even with her flight nervous crooning around her, alone.

 

 

 

“Your Grace,” Tora murmurs, and Light, she could put a muzzle on her. “You must eat.”

She feels vicious, righteous, “I sustain myself quite well, Majordomo. But your concern is noted.”

Always noted; never acknowledged, nor acted upon. She’d drown herself before she hunted again. It was tactless. Without Korialstrasz? Without Tyran? She couldn’t imagine. Couldn’t move on.

“With due respect,” That phrase, a poison dart into the clenched muscle of her gut, wringing nausea from her, “I doubt that. You are waning, Your Grace. And if you were to… seek a new consort-”

It cuts, so she cuts in, eyes flashing with more fury than warranted.

“To what end, Tora? I cannot bear any more offspring. It is done, speak no more of it.”

Humble, but obstinate, Torastrasza stands her ground. “To help you heal, Your Grace. Remember, your prison is self-wrought. The bars are your own fabrication, a punishment you do not deserve. You must live on and thrive, for the sake of the lost.”

Her anger is fabricated too, a mask to cover the pathetic yowl of her soul.

“You are insolent, my dear. Do not forget, you address your Queen.”

“I address my Queen, yes. My Queen, who has been grieving far too long.” Tora scoots forward, head lowered, deferential, eyes lifting to hers for mere moments before dropping away again. “I am not your child, but I belong to your flight. We are all yours, and we all wish you to be well. To find joy again.”

It grates on her, every word. She’s unworthy, she has no response. She turns away, wings spreading, and she leaps from the tower to soar far above, away from the onslaught of sympathy. It gnaws at her, incessant, an unwelcome arrow straight to the heart of it.

She veers towards Galakrond’s Rest, circling out far to the northwest on instinct. It’s near blasphemous how good the air feels beneath her wings. She enjoys the freedom, she realises, and the thought sickens her. It does not feel right.

Her children, dead before birth in the Ruby Sanctum, will never know the magic of the sky. Tyranastrasz won’t dazzle her with his effortless grace, Korialstrasz can no longer chase after her through clouds like a besotted youth, and Ysera, oh, dear sister with that dreamy dance to her flight, never again. And here she is, giddy with speed and height and the ethereal beauty of it all, betraying them.

She checks her course quick, flapping her wings, hovering, surveying the land below. A nightmare, from but a moment ago it seems. Angrathar the Wrathgate. The stench of the plague, the shrill of the dying, the taste of pure ash on her tongue. It was here she had condemned him to life, unwitting.

Highlord Bolvar Fordragon, once Regent of Stormwind, Jailer of the Damned. The Lich King, self-crowned for an eternity of shackles as his throne.

He might understand. Or else, he might finally jeer at her the way she deserves it. Anything but more coddling.

She stretches out again, wings shifting to gain speed and she sweeps over the Wrathgate, turning south just before Ymirheim, headed straight for Icecrown Citadel. Sentries spot her, an alarm goes off then silences again, and no more aggression than a low murmur of distrust greets her from the minions staffing the walkways and balconies outside when she lands and takes on her elven form.

A San’layn comes to her, bow hesitant, uncertain; who is she now that her Aspect is lost? She does not smile back or nod.

“...Your Grace…” The title comes like a tooth pulled. Alexstrasza steps towards him, and he draws back half an inch, brows furrowing as he considers blocking her path. It is easy to slip past and find her way while he’s stalling. He whirls to watch her walk, and it takes a conscious effort to maintain the natural sway of her hips, to not feel ashamed for her audacious posture and garb.

“Do not worry. I know where to find him.”

The San’layn boy hurries after, light on his feet, a wisp, the smell of blood clinging to his mouth, wafting to her nose like tempting incense. Hunger rears its head, sneering at her, vindicated. She clenches her jaw, and walks on, eyes ahead.

The Frozen Throne stands before her, imposing and cased in ice, the monarch of the undead a brimstone centerpiece of the display. Immobile, unreachable. His blazing eyes regard her from the helmet as he speaks through no throat but the very vibrations of the air around her.

“Life-Binder. What madness brings you before me?”

The title stings her, lodges under her skin like a splinter, but she does not flinch. She hears the San’layn pause then step away and disappear, leaving them alone in the howling cold. “I ask myself the same,” she says.  _Some call it solitude_ , she muses, standing an arm’s length from the sheath of ice he’s trapped in. Light is broken many times over and his visage is distorted. Somehow, the sight is soothing. “But it is long overdue that I face what I have made of you, Highlord Fordragon.”

“Bolvar Fordragon is dead. Fallen at the Wrathgate.” His deep echo of a voice is dispassionate, practical. He faults her not. But why?

“Fallen, beneath the sweep of dragonfire.”

She insists, he rebukes. “No. To the plague. The fire merely… began what I am now. If you seek blame, I have none to give. I am not your instrument of self-flagellation.”

He takes offense, does he? His pain is his own. She can relate, but an indignant pride blinks awake. How dare he deny her hand in his unmaking? Impertinent.

But  _ flagellation _ , what a treacherous word, undeniably paladin-esque. Old roots run deep. Alexstrasza smiles, her cheeks aching with the motion, modest and almost unfamiliar.

“Specific,” she presses, undaunted. “Intimate with the practice?”

A moment of silence. She fancies it to be embarrassment.

“To endure is to serve the Light, we’ve been told. There were methods, some less savory. It’s not as bizarre as it sounds.” He grows impatient, pushes at her. “What do you want, Ruby Queen?”

She ignores it. The arrogance feels good, royal. It is who she should be, had been once, long ago. “Not bizarre, no… but intimate, in a way.” She says it all before she can check where the words come from. Provocative, testy. A flirt, even. It’s insane. “Erotic, I could say.”

“You blaspheme,” he grinds out, monotonous, but harsh.

“Does it matter, King of the Damned?” A jab, touché.

He parries, retaliates, “In a broad sense, to you, perhaps it should matter. Do not act like you’ve abandoned life. It’s embarrassing to see you try against your nature.”

He aims and the stab lands true. Her red lips stretch thin, golden eyes narrow. She sidesteps, starts anew. “...you remain dormant. Why?”

Her taloned gauntlets scrape the ice, carving shallow rivulets. She catches his distaste, the haste to parry her. “It is not your concern. I govern my Scourge without need to step foot among them. Is that not enough?”

It should be, but it displeases her. The ice beneath the leather on her palm is searing cold. She wedges against it, musters magic, and water drips, her handprint sinking into the surface.

The blaze of his stare narrows, haunting, a warning. She pushes forward, more heat, a breath of fire melting away more ice. “...you are afraid. Of the burden of the crown. It hounds you, the notion that you might become like him. That you might turn, irredeemable. Some part of you still clings to service. This too, is a duty. It should not become your will… is that what keeps you locked here?”

“You speculate, dragon.” If it’s an insult, she hardly hears it. He’s losing his stance, losing to her. Intoxicating.

She puts both hands on the ice and exhales, only a thin layer remaining. She holds his gaze, clearer than before, and smirks, taking pleasure in acting against him. “No. I theorize, based on your behavior, on past events. You fear freedom, its implications. No longer a tool, but a power to be reckoned with.”

She caresses the ice from his face, watches the rivulets of clear water stain the char of his skin. He hisses when his lips are free, and she feels his breath on her face, leaning close. “...I made you.” It is not a confession, it is a boast. She finds pleasure in the thought, corrupted. Goosebumps crawl her skin and she begs herself, why, no, what is this compulsion? But she cannot stop.

Her clawed fingers caress his chin and he tilts it back, away from her touch. So he can feel it, even with his flesh only brimstone. A delightful revelation.

“You’ve simply interjected. A mistake, coincidence. Don’t get conceited,” he retorts, weak. The rest of him still trapped, she watches his neck strain. Now, he wants freedom, does he? Now there is a threat of some sort, perhaps of temptation.

She savors the authority.

“Your denial amuses me.”

Fingers trail down, following the line of his throat, Adam’s apple, to the hollow of it, staying there. Fire throbs beneath her touch in his veins. She catches his ash-tasting breath on her tongue as she inhales, and he speaks, still fighting.

“You are deflecting.” How dare he. “Your consorts are dead, so you seek solace in becoming someone who deserves pain. You toy with villainy to justify the hurt. A farce.”

Her golden eyes snap up, sharp with menace, her fury feral. “Does my appearance fool you, perhaps? Do you not think…” She bares her teeth, an illusion of fangs. “...that I could rip you limb from limb if I put my mind to it?”

“And who then, will sit the Frozen Throne?” He asks, unafraid, meeting her stare to stare. “You? Life-Binder.”

“DO NOT CALL ME THAT!” She snarls, a rumble in her throat as she draws away, shaken, hands trembling, shoulders drawn. “Not anymore.” She whispers, stiff. Cold wind brushes her carmine hair over her shoulder.

“...you seek comfort in the wrong place. Be gone, and heal. You are alive, you have no place here.”

It’s infuriating. She glares at him, burning, teeth grinding. He watches her, impassive, but alert. She steps to him again, and his freed chin now follows her movement as she stands above, gazing down, severe.

“...are you afraid of this, too? I’m not. But you don’t understand. I need it.” She cups his face in her palms, bends down to touch her nose to his. He is still, a stone. “...some wounds must be cauterized. Don’t deny me resolution.”

“An illusion, you mean. I cannot give you anything.” A final stand, aware he has lost. He gives in, and his regret jars her. “...but so be it. You insist on suffering like a fool.”

It is as much a permission as she will get. She grabs it, greedy, starved. “You will curb your tongue,” she breathes, then kisses him, and it is like losing her wings and plummeting to her death from above the clouds. Wrong. Contrary to her nature.

She pulls away to consider, to re-evaluate.

His lips, though hot and damp from the water dripping down his face, have little softness to them. Almost like kissing a statue.

Oh, the playful plush kisses of Korialstrasz, the fierce, wanton passion of Tyran’s lips, the reverent worship of her more fleeting consorts! The awaited satisfaction never comes, not even belated. Her heart only aches, and she glances into his eyes, dreading. Does he sneer at her for her disappointment?

No. He watches, guarded if she can read his strange ember features right.

Something akin to flustered, she steps away, tucks a strand of hair behind her long ear.

“I have told you. I cannot give you anything,” he says, just this side of vindictive. It burns her to hear it, she is defiant, decadent. She could slink away in defeat and wallow in the hurt again, reliving the losses, seeking the comfort of the gone, refusing the aid of the willing… or she could stay and face it all.

Nothing makes a cleaner slate than fire.

Poetic, she mocks herself, coming back to him, gripping his jaw, talons scraping the char of his flesh. She hisses, her lips on his, red rose on granite, “If you cannot give it… I’ll take it.”

It is not easy to move him, she knows, so the momentary weakness, a second’s widening of his eyes, brings more satisfaction than perhaps warranted. She purrs, pressing to the remaining ice, melting it all, freeing him, damning him. “...stop me if you dare,  _ Highlord _ .”

“You’re mad, Life-Binder.” The riposte is weak, she laughs it in the face and shuts him up, mouth pressing to his, open and shameless, tongue pushing past the coal-like lips to find his. And oh, what a find. He is alive there, as alive as he can be, pliant flesh yielding beneath her aggression, wet and soft, hesitant. She moans, grasping the back of his head, the crown’s steel a biting chill through her gauntlet.

Light, he is so passive. Unbothered, untouched. Infuriating, leaving her hot with the need to make him come undone.  _ To unmake him again. _

There’s spit between their lips when she pulls away, panting. She shifts, climbing into his lap with her knees on either side of his hips. He is cool in spots and scalding in others, but she is used to both. He gazes at her, waiting. She drags her claws down his toned chest with a faint screech reminiscent of metal on stone. She smiles.

“Are you that hard everywhere?” She asks, coquettish and outrageous, pulling the gauntlets from her hands to expose skin. They land with a clang on the floor. She splays her bare fingers on his torso, feeling the heat he emanates, the strange cinder texture of his flesh. It’s not sweet skin she can caress, but he feels her explorations, she has no doubt.

“Were you that obscene with your consorts, too?” He retaliates, cruel. Thinking himself shrewd, no doubt.

She meets his gaze, presses close, speaking at his lips because she’s always liked that, “Even worse. And they adored me for it.”

She could stab back, ask after his late wife, but she has heart still it seems. She keeps quiet, kissing him again, tongue subduing his with ease, though he hardly fights back. He lets her. It’s frustrating, but she has weapons still.

Licking along his bottom lip, she tastes ash, familiar for a dragon. “...you’re so pliant,  _ my King _ ,” she purrs, pries at his defenses. “Feels like you will let me do absolutely anything…”

“I can imagine little you could do that would trouble me,” he responds, unimpressed. Clueless, she realizes. How endearing.

“Oh? A challenge.” She trails her hand up along his chest again, following the line of his throat, the proud jut of his chin, finding that strange hard mouth. She plunges in, one fingertip, two, three, and she sinks them in slow, deliberate. With meaning. “Gladly accepted. We shall see where your boundaries lie.”

She feels his entire form stiffen as her fingers slide in to the knuckles, nearly filling his mouth. He doesn’t gag, but there’s confusion in his gaze and his hands tighten into the armrests of his throne. Light, his mouth is so  _ hot and wet _ . She feels heat tingle between her thighs for the first time in terrible years years.

He tries to adjust, tongue brushing her fingers as he attempts to swallow, and she moans, pushing them deeper, as deep as they can go. He grunts, soft, barely heard, and it sends another throb through her. His teeth close down, her fingers seem delicate enough that he could bite them off, but he merely holds her still while he swallows again, blazing eyes closing. A dim light is still visible beneath his charred eyelids. His teeth release her.

She takes the invitation.

She thrusts, slow at first to let him grow comfortable. She holds his head still and watches him take it, fingering his mouth. It’s erotic, unsightly, unimaginable, wildly arousing. She moans, feeling his tongue move, a question, a please. She speeds up to tease him worse, faster, harder, until she draws a wretched groan from his throat and his eyes crack open to gaze at her, uncomprehending. What sweet bewilderment, and she has barely started.

She trembles, holding her arm still, eyes locked with his. He breathes through his nose, harsh, surprised that he needs it, human instinct stronger than he’s anticipated. All the better for her.

Spit stains his chin. She drips for the display, shifting her hand, pulling it half way out to bend her little finger in with the rest and push all four inside. They fill his mouth, she feels him twitch again, a small noise of disbelief choking off in the back of his throat when she presses in and stays there, unforgiving. A punishment for his jab at her fallen lovers. Both could take this treatment without fuss, though Tyran had been a little more dubious about the merits at first.

Oh, the memories, bitter and enticing.

“...you’re doing well,  _ my King _ ,” she whispers. His tongue flutters, nervous, and he tries to swallow, can’t quite manage it. He doesn’t gag, but is on the cusp, and it’s a delicate balance that she understands intimately. Saliva trickles from the corner of his mouth, shiny on his fire-vein skin, following the curve of his jaw. He grunts, perhaps to say against her.

She pulls away, freeing his lips, the muscles in her thighs ready to leap in case he shoves her off.

Nothing of the sort.

He pants, chest heaving, blinking slow, mouth hanging open, wet and inviting. She smears her spit-covered fingers on his chest, trailing his pectorals. There’s a rumble, low, half-protesting, as his tension eases and he grows almost lax, a strange inclination for repose in his posture. She traces his defined muscles, circles a hard nipple with her fingertips and he shifts away. She follows, insistent, both hands finding both pebble-like nubs, stroking the unyielding texture, relentless. His breath catches and his head turns aside as he submits, allows it, lets himself enjoy it if the stifled grunt is any indication.

“Do you still doubt that I could take what I want from you?” She asks, fingers moving in rhythmic circles still, teasing. She imagines the tingling faint pleasure he must feel and the thought makes her throb and wetten more. She feels it smear between her thighs when she moves, but her focus is on him. Her touch leaves him breathless, giving, less passive and more submissive. It is a triumph, and she’s flushed with it.

Her question still hangs in the air between them, unanswered but for his faint low groans of helpless pleasure. She will not be ignored.

She pinches both nipples between thumb and fingers and pulls, rolls, or something similar, though his flesh is different. His teeth grind together, his eyes narrowing at her,  _ it hurts _ , his expression says, but his chest arches away from the backrest of the throne, into the ache of her teasing.

“Answer me, Bolvar,” she breathes his name, nose brushing his, lips ghosting towards his mouth to bait him. She smirks for the faint tilt of his chin, a telltale of defeat. She pinches again and he grunts, a tremble rushing through his big frame. Oh, he is feeling  _ good _ .

But he is stubborn, the burn of his stare declaring he’s not subdued yet. She could liken it to Tyran’s pretend defiance in bed, but here the stakes are true. He won’t bend to her will out of pure love - she must conquer. The task fills her to the brim with hot thrill.

She twists his nipples one last time, watching him grow rigid, his jaw clenching, eyes closing as he suffers through it, the faint dip of his head betraying the sick pleasure he takes in the sting of pain.

“I’m not done yet,” she promises. She’s almost certain he’s pleased to hear it.

“...do your worst, dragon,” he taunts, the nightmare echo of his voice laced with his laboured breathing. She smiles, kissing him for the perfect retort, and this time, he curls his tongue against hers when they meet.

She pulls away with a moan, red lips glistening with spit. She licks them clean while she strokes his cheek under the helmet with her knuckles. “You wish, darling.”

The endearment slips from her tongue in a haughty coo, an old friend, well abused when she were in her best moods in bed. He cannot know, but he has some notion because his face twitches, a slight expression of annoyance that none dare tease out. But she fears him not. They both know anything he could do to her to punish her impudence would only serve as respite from her grief, a confirmation of her self-inflicted guilt. Torture, death, reanimation? She is convinced she would deserve it all. And he does not wish to indulge her, not in her selfish quest for suffering.

She must mourn, is what he’s thinking, most likely. She cannot be sure, but she’s rarely off the mark. This dalliance, too, is but a tool to make her miss her consorts, she understands. And she does, in a gut-wrenching echo of what she’s lost, her heartstring near snapping with the lack of responses she’s used to. But there is also nostalgia, distorted. It is enough to spur her on, to let her enjoy this. And she finds shelter in the work of seduction.

Her worst? He doesn’t even come close to deserving it yet, barring the technicalities. Instead, she scoots back, her knees on either side of his thighs, spread wide, and she reaches for his belt. It’s burned, too, but workable, and she unlatches it. The frayed cloth kilt and codpiece come away easily and she drops them beside the throne, hungry stare fixed on his groin.

A well-endowed man, proportional with his figure, from the silhouette of it through the leather trousers. It twitches when she looks too long, and she smiles, pressing one fingertip just below his navel.

“You’re close to tearing the lacing, my King,” she purrs, dragging her fingertip down, following the criss-cross of the leather string that holds the trousers closed. She feels it, how hard it is, how it twitches for the simplest touch, and she feels his hips jolt and tense minutely, almost missable. What a reward.

Her finger travels all the way between his legs, pausing on what she feels is his heavy sack, swollen with want. She meets his gaze, can tell he wishes he could afford to glance aside. “...are you afraid to touch me?”

It’s cruel of her to push now, but when else when she has the upper hand? He narrows his bright ember eyes at her, mouth firm, the tendons in his neck standing out.

“You insist on tempting death. I have no reason to reciprocate.”

To her, that’s a loud yes.

She leans in to kiss him, tongues slick and quick in the liplock, then draws back slowly, watching the burn of his eyes dim then brighten as she arches, and reaches back behind herself. She undoes the fastenings of her armored bra and she lifts the garment away, making theatrics of letting it fall aside.

Her breasts are heavy, large, with small peach-rose aerola and nipples that hardened in excitement. She knows she’s gorgeous, and he thinks so too. It’s easy to tell from the way he finally turns his head aside to not look, to not fall victim. It’s flattering, and she rejoices in the victory, but she wants his eyes on her.

“Giving up? Is the Lord of the Damned really a prude?” She teases, tilting his chin back towards her. The blazing eyes glare back, firmly at her face.

“You have no modesty,” he hisses. It’s an accusation.

She laughs, warm and brilliant, freeing. It fills the chill air around them with strange magic.

“No. It’s unnecessary. I know my worth… showing myself takes nothing away.” She cups both her breasts in her hands and kneads them once, smirking when his eyes drop down to watch. “...a man’s helpless attraction only proves that worth. You wish you could touch.”

He intends to let her simmer in misery, so she wounds him back. It is unhealthy, but fair, she tells herself.

“You wish you were still human so you’d be allowed.”

He glances up, a faint, passing second of vulnerability in the mere action. Then it is gone, his face and eyes a terrible void, and he growls, furious, indignant, and she knows she’s near ruined it. His hands come up fast to shove her off; she catches them by the wrists and holds him still, the muscles in her arms bunching as she exerts herself.

“But you ARE!” She growls over the snarl of insults he no doubt was about to hurl at her. She pushes forward, chest into his hands, and he grips her heavy breasts on instinct, against his own volition. “...you are allowed,” she whispers.

She kisses the helmet, presses closer, thumbs stroking his wrists. His hands are still on her breasts, but he does not explore them. He’s waiting. Not for permission. For a command.

“...touch me,” she demands, voice low and thick with desire.

Air rushes from his lungs in a heavy exhale as the anger drops from his stiff shoulders. His hands move with a greed that she could only liken to inexperience. Finally, he is allowed. Finally, he can indulge, and he  _ does _ .

He massages her, his hands as hard and rough as the rest of his body, but his touch has a welcome solid feel to it that anchors her. Her breasts warm up under his touch and she moans, head tossed back for the sensation, the pleasure tingling through her. Her nipples roll under his palms, her flesh yields to his grip, and she wants more. She wants his service.

“Enough,” she whispers through laboured breathing, and he halts, pulling his hands away. She shivers for how he gazes up at her, condemning, expectant. Gods, his eyes, his unreadable face, his terrible hard mouth.

She purrs, grabbing the spikes of his crown like horns, yanking his head forward and down, smothering his face against her plush breasts. How his massive bulk yields to her strength, to her rule. She throbs to feel his hot breath at her skin.

“Suck,” she commands, shaking, beyond aroused.

It’s the first true moan that escapes him, ragged and deep but so faint she barely hears it lost against her own body. He cranes his neck against her grip and seeks out a hard pink nipple, latching onto it with his mouth, sucking it as he was told. His lips pinch her, his tongue comes to caress her with wet, messy flicks, leaving her flushed through with want. She holds him there and rides the hot tingles, hips faintly undulating with the need, eyes closed, full lower lip bitten in. It’s good,  _ so good _ .

His hands come to rest on her bare waist, not to stop her but to hold on, his warm, steady grip a sweet counterpoint to her own assertion.

When she pulls away, her nipple is red and wet with his saliva. She moans seeing it, ravaged by him at her own will, beautiful. She wants more.

He is panting for air, staring up at her, watchful. She yanks him to her other breast, and though he waits for her to bid him, his mouth is already open and dripping spit against her skin. He’s coming unraveled at her very own hands.

“Go on. Suck it, my King.” She pushes harder against his face, his helmet surely leaving imprints on her supple flesh. “Use your tongue, keep doing it.”

He does, wide open mouth closing on her breast, sucking on her nipple and aerola, licking the sensitive skin, moaning, obscene, mouthing her as though hungry for her taste. She hisses, shivering, one hand releasing his crown to claw at his shoulder, scratching up char and embers. Light, he’s eating her up. He’s loving it, despite all the denial before.

She wants to fuck him so bad.

She tears him off of herself and he groans, pitiful, wanton, mouth slick and open as he gasps for air. She lunges down to kiss him, steal the breath from those strange, perfect lips, and that hot, wonderful tongue. He lets her, mouth straining wider for her, his torso tensing as he pushes closer, wanting it just as bad.

She’s won.

She pulls back, leaving him needing, and she tears at the lacing of his trousers. It comes loose, the leather opens up and the head of his cock already shows, matching her expectations.

The colour is the same as his burned skin, the veins throbbing with fire rather than blood, but at the head the gathered fluids are exactly as glistening sticky as they ought to be. He twitches twice while she takes in the sight, enjoying the attention.

She yanks the trousers down, growling when they’re stuck at his hips, clawing, leaving burning welts on his charred skin. He shifts to help her, hissing, shuddering visibly when his cock is fully exposed.

He’s thick and hard and huge, twitching when she just stares, twitching when she grabs the shaft in one hand, leaking more fluids. She grips him hard and he groans, clenching his hands into her waist, head dipped down to watch what she is doing to him. To watch his own defiling. She’s certain there’s humor in the notion.

It’s perfect in her hand, throbbing, aching for her attentions. It’s harder than flesh, but closer to the natural texture than the rest of him. He has his foreskin intact, sheathing the head, and she drags it down with a long stroke, purring when he moans for it. She holds still, amused. Now the game begins.

“Do you want to come, Bolvar?” It’s the simplest question, with the simplest answer. Yet, she’s found, the answer always comes with some degree of pleasurable shame.

“...yes.” His echoing voice is a whisper, a strange caress to her ears. Beautifully haunting.

“Good. I will make you.” It’s a merciful promise, always offering a false hope. She remembers, Krasus wept when he first fell for it. The memory stings. “But you cannot come until I command you to.”

She sees it dawn on him, when he glances up at her, the blazing eyes widened by a fraction. She plays innocent, squeezes hard at the base of his cock. He hisses.

“Do you understand the rules?”

“Yes,” he says firmly, stepping up to the challenge. She hopes he will come to regret the brazen confidence.

She drags her hand up, the foreskin sliding with the touch, covering the head again. Though coal laced with fire as the rest of him, the surface is shiny with his wetness, beautiful. Her fingers grip the excess skin and pinch it, tugging it taut before pushing it back down, exposing him once again. He groans, shudders, enthralled. She’s good.

Her thumb rubs circles at the frenulum, teases that little spot where the crown connects to the skin. A few slow strokes up and down, deliberate, measured, and his muscles all clench, ready to thrust. He wants more, but he obeys, oath-bound.

She stops altogether, takes her hands away from him. She wonders if he thinks her ruthless. The idea is entertaining and arousing. She kisses him, blinds him while her tongue keeps his busy, and her fingers come back to play with the slick head of his cock, touching, palming, caressing, tugging, little teasing prods to scrape away at his resolve. He gasps, hot into her mouth, and whispers, wretched,

“Stop…”

She bites his hard mouth, chuckles, and pulls the foreskin up to cover his over-sensitized glans, then squeezes tight and listens to his echoing hiss. Feels his fingers twitch on her waist.

She moves on to his sack, cradles it, weighs it, massages softly. He rumbles faintly, curious, perhaps it is a first again, something he has not even experienced in a better, brighter life. She presses red kisses to his lips and squeezes, both balls squished in her palm, just hard enough to make him grunt. Release leaves him lax and panting, head dipped aside, blazing eyes half-mast. Despite the brimstone flesh, he looks more human than he realizes. It’s wildly attractive.

“I could do this all day…” She murmurs, intends it as a threat and he lifts his head, gazing at her in alarm, aware. She grabs his cock again and strokes it, both hands now massaging the shaft, toying with his foreskin, with the sensitive frenulum, the weeping slit. She smears precum on his length, on her palms, the sounds of her hands moving up and down wet and filthy. He halfway bucks, grunting, and she jolts her hands away immediately.

“Don’t you dare move again,” she warns. He relaxes again, pliant and waiting, wanting. Never apologetic. He doesn’t need to be.

Once more, she jerks him, fluids flowing from his slit in abundance, all smeared on her hands. He is tense, holding onto her, so disciplined, panting through an open mouth, groaning as he comes close and she stops again.

“You witch…” He breathes. She takes the compliment.

“You are so endearing,” she whispers, wiping a fresh droplet of precum dripping down the head of his cock. She lifts it to his mouth and smirks. “...here. First hand evidence of how alive you are.”

He’s appalled, chin jerking away. “You wouldn’t-”

“I will,” she presses her fingers at his lips, leaning close to murmur. “...don’t pretend you have dignity left… I’ve fucked it all out of your mouth already. Haven’t I?”

He stares at her, spellbound. Who is this woman? he must wonder. She purrs, alluring, and finally his lips fall open with a shameful moan and he bends forward to take the fingers into his mouth himself. His eyes are tightly shut, but he sucks without being told, swallows on his own, and shakes beneath her. He wants this, without a question. Dare she imagine he needed it more than she had?

She pulls her fingers free from the soft, slick grip of his mouth and he looks back up at her, lost, confused. She kisses him on the lips, proud of him, aroused, melancholic.

“You’re so good at this…” She assures, going back to his cock, massaging it with slow strokes. “I will let you come soon… just one more thing…”

He does his best not to arch, to stay as still as she wants him to be, and gives a jerky nod on instinct. Anything, anything. He’s at that point, she can tell. She strokes him quicker, more insistent, and he struggles, gasping. Close, very close, he grows stiffer and stiffer, muscles bulging and bunching, hoping-

She stops, pulling her hands away. He groans, desperate, devastated, disbelieving. She cups his cheeks in her slick palms and meets his molten gaze. He’s breathing fast, eyes her lips, desires.

“...do you want to fuck me, Bolvar?” She asks, direct, unapologetic.

He’s near gone, barely hanging on, caught between dutiful shame and unbound lust. He hesitates. It’s no good.

She grabs his shoulders, pulls, then shoves him back into the throne with a snarl. It creaks, he grunts, awake now, eyes flashing with living flame, teeth bared. She growls back, hissing smoke.

“I asked you, Lord of the Damned…” She grits through her teeth. “Do you want to fuck your Queen?”

“Yes,” he grates out, echoing voice harsh with denied pleasure. He breathes, holding her gaze captive as his own eyes soften in understanding. “...but you won’t let me, will you?”

She smiles, kissing his mouth long and slow, getting lost in the sensation. She sighs as she draws away, fulfilled.

“No,” she answers, wrapping her hand around his cock again, grip sure and steady. “I’ll hold it over our heads as something to come back for.”

“You don’t know what you’re doing…”

She begins stroking, and he stops talking, eyes falling shut while she builds up a quickening pace, aiming for desperation. He moans, shakes, arches even though he shouldn’t, helpless beneath her hands.

“...I think I know exactly what I’m doing…” She murmurs, jerking him hard and fast, edging there, so very close, a mess of precum on her fingers, the slick noises loud between their bodies.

“...please…” He rasps, unbidden, on pure, animal instinct. She has him by the scruff and holds him tight in her merciless jaws. She keeps going, listening to his breath hitch, his rigid body burning with hope. Almost… almost…! “Please…!”

It’s desperate, afraid even, he is a single perfect stroke away and she knows, and she stops, pulling her hand away, leaving him dripping. He gasps, eyes snapping wide open, and he moans, grabbing at her, frantic, devastated. Ruined.

She slips from his grasp and he roars after her, enraged, betrayed. She comes to her knee before him, bending her face to his cock. He stills abruptly, fury frozen in his throat, and he shakes, cracking.

“...come…” She breathes at his pulsing cock, the tip of her tongue giving the frenulum a single, slight brush, featherlight.

He shatters.

Wretched, terrible moans wreck him as he orgasms, spilling his seed across his stomach in lazy thick drips, cock twitching and twitching, his massive form slumped in the throne, entirely violated. A beautiful sight, carnal and indecent. She drinks it in, thirsty, pleasure throbbing through her as he writhes.

He is still shuddering when she gets up, discarded garments in her hands, and turns to walk away.

 

 

 

He stares into the empty space she’s left behind, vision bewildered blurry. His orgasm still hums in his burned veins like an aftertaste of pure delight. It is forbidden, not for him, and yet, she has left him craving for more. 

He had meant to taunt her with the pretense, not fall victim to it.

He thinks of her figure, of the allure of her blood red lips, of the scent of her, the feel of her touch, her command. Yes. He enjoys her. Against all logic, all magic, against old habit and eternal law, he enjoys what she does to him, the way she does it, the woman she is.

Unbending, a Queen.

Her roar pierces the air to announce her presence to other dragons, he understands from readings from another lifetime.  _ Here I hunt,  _ she declares,  _ cross my path if you dare. _

Slowly, for the first time in several long years, the Lich King rises from the Frozen Throne... and gets decent. He fetches his fallen belt and codpiece and puts them back on. He stands before his broken prison, deliberating.

What new terror it is to walk free.


End file.
